


It’s My House, It’s Your House

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Challenge Response, Fletcher comes and goes, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Love/Hate, M/M, POV First Person, POV Ray, Ray's annoyance stays tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: When everything comes outta your control. Or... doesn't.When everything is according to your plan. Or... not really.Life is too unpredictable.
Relationships: Raymond Smith/Fletcher
Kudos: 35





	It’s My House, It’s Your House

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [It's my house, it's your house](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/576187) by JonyaLoveless. 



> Inspired by _"It's My House"_ by Mika.
> 
> Written as a challenge to Izzy Grinch's fic (the link will be added soon).

There are very different kinds of working days. But God knows there is nothing even slightly better than returning into your own home. Into your cosy house with everything in place exactly the way you want it to be. Or almost everything. Well...

Frankly speaking, it was Fletcher who wanted their kitchen to be that big.

“Just imagine, an entire collection of all the beautiful liquors fitting in here...” his eyes so dreamy, so persistent; he had already calculated where and how he was going to quickly get his most favorite drinks.

And now, here they are: _Hennessy_ in a gift bottle of Baccarat crystal, and the entire whiskey assembly, including, of course, Fletcher’s beloved forty-year-old _Glenfarclas_.

Devil take him, who on earth would ever need such a large kitchen while living completely alone? However a bar − I could use one to have a glass of whiskey after another tedious day. And that’s basically it, this apartments could’ve been complete then. My private life hasn’t had a chance anyway ever since the day I kicked the bastard out. Well, he left, to be more precise. And the reason was... Ah, fuck it, it doesn’t matter now, I’m just bloody happy the sneaky nuisance is out of my way.

So. Where was I?

The doorbell rings. For hell’s sake, it’s almost night, have they seen the time? 

“Raymond Smith? It was requested to be delivered to you...”

Flowers. Pink. Long. Horrendous. 

The note inside says: _“These ones are called laceleaf, darling._ _Buenas Tardes, Raymondo!_ ”

Jesus.

The delivery boy is followed by− yes. Him.

“Put them next to the sofa, they will look just lovely there. It’s so glum in here. You know, I’d love to stick around for a while to brighten up that gloomy den of yours a little. If you don’t mind?” he gives him a cunning and piercing gaze from behind the glasses.

The delivery boy finally realizes his services are not needed anymore and silently disappears, stumbling awkwardly on the doormat. The one Fletcher brought. Back then. Fletch just grins slyly after him.

“Unless you wanted that wimp to warm you up tonight? Just give me a hint, and I’ll be gone. In a wink of an eye. Or, as the saying goes, two is a company,” he pauses, “three is an interesting opportunity.”

“I can be courteous. I will close this door behind you, don’t worry.” I breathe in. “Why are you here?” The truth is I’m actually used to living here alone _and_ to the fact the bastard comes without knocking every now and then.

“Ah, don’t you know you are supposed to welcome me with your hands open and ask if I want to come inside? Oh, wait, I already did. Is it alright? Or should I come out? And then you will request me to come?”

I give up and flop on the leather sofa. Then rub my temples. I’d hug and tackle the asshole right onto this exact sofa. Though I wouldn’t be surprised at all to find out then that I owe him a pretty penny; you have to be on the constant alert if you’re working with Mickey. These days almost every scumbag tries to get in his pocket and fuck him up, and quite literally too.

Meanwhile Fletcher acts like he owns the place; he takes a glass and fills it with whiskey. He sips, savoring the taste.

“It is so kind of you to always have my favorite bavvy, it lifts the spirits up, really,” he sneers playfully, “and something else too, if you know what I mean..?”

“You have one minute, Fletcher. Sixty seconds. Then, I’m rolling out a red carpet for you to fuck off running from my private property, is that clear? It’s fifty nine now...” and it’s all useless as well. 

He’s about to make another sip, but my words make him move the glass away from his lips.

“It’s a blasphemy, truly, to gulp this marvelous thingy down in such a hurry, heartless even. However...” he drinks anyway, then pulls out a cigar. “If you insist...” He finishes the glass and puts it on an armchair next to me. “Thanks for the evening, honey. I’m buying next time. Same place, same hour,” he leans down to whisper this into my ear, slides his hand across my chest, then pushes himself off and walks towards the door.

On the very threshold he stops and turns to me.

“You know what, I just changed my mind. Meet me at the barby. You do remember how much I love your barby, don’t you?”


End file.
